Count the Days
by NotAThatGoodAWriter
Summary: Calenders failed them a long time ago, there's no real way of telling the days or weeks or months apart. That's what frustrates them the most; simply not knowing. Not knowing is worse.


**_G_**olden sun glares across the clean, pastel sky, a faint, gentle breeze blowing through the dusty grounds of the prison, easing the relentless heat of the day. The patches of grass that fade in death speckle the view from the yard where she stands on the edge of the worn asphalt ground, arms folded loosely over her chest with the sun beating down on her bare shoulders and prickling the back of her neck as she looks out. It's a beautiful day, probably one of the nicest they've had; sweet weather and a sparse gathering of the rotted creatures at the fences. The woman stands calmly, soft blue hues gazing out over the areas of the yard that masquerade as gardens, but there are flowers of melancholy blooming behind her eyes.

They never had a calender system going, nothing that had any basis or assurance at least. The best they could do was _guess. _She wasn't guessing, they'd stopped trying to plot the days of the week or the months or the yeara long time ago. It went more by seasons now; they'd passed through one summer and through winter into another; precision wasn't afforded to them but it had to have been at least a year.

But a year since what.

A year since they found the prison?  
A year since they camped in the quarry?  
A year since she saw her daughter last? dead or alive

A year since. Since what they could only _guess_. Only mull it over in their minds and try and pick an event from thin air that they could line it up to. That's what she'd been doing, or at least _had _been doing. But waking up in her cell that morning, rising to see the dewy golden sunlight through the bars in the window, feeling the air somehow tired; light and yet mourning. That feeling seeped over her the rest of the day, and still climbs over her spine even now as she stands in the warm sun as the sweet light might burn it away. Complacent grief. The sorry acceptance that lies so comfortably in her heart that it scolds her ribs, burning black and aching, her body fighting against the benign feeling resting within her mind. She knows she should be sickened by it, because _it never goes away, you just make room for it. _And she made room. She pushed it down into it's own little cage to hide and fester away, never to see the sun. But it got comfortable in the darkness, grew to recline inside her heart as she kept its hiding place a secret even from herself. It found it's way out and lazed there long before she realised.

She accepted it now.

She accepted it a long time ago.

But the feeling of it burned softly when she woke, fired an uncomfortable warmth without kindling in the flame. Tugged at her mind like she should know what she was missing.  
Of course she knew.

As she stands out in the yard, quite still aside from the shallow movements of her breath, her eyes cast out over the place they've made their home. The people working out amongst the patches of land they've turned over to leave rough soil that sprouts lush greens and dots of coloured fruits and kids that sit and play cards, jumping up and pointed at their hand; or run around the dull grass with cries of laughter at their game. —-She places her among them. Sat with her little legs crossed beside the others, setting down cards with her lip twisted just a fraction like it does when she's concentrating. Out running between the others, reaching out to tag them with a smile as wide as the sun and laughing in her modest way. Watching as the men pull vegetables from the ground, asking with her quiet curiosity and her toying with her hands in front of her…But she'd be older; her hair longer, her features grown, that old blue shirt, cargo shorts and little sneakers abandoned in favour of -no doubt- something more practical. Boots laced tight over her shins, a gun at her hip perhaps. Of course she'd let her have one. Teach her to use it right, stand behind her and watch her aim at cans in a row. She tries to imagine it. But it's only a vague echo printed across the scene.

She's on her mind. But it's not without reason. The sun was almost always shining on her birthday, glowing bright for the little girl to let her have some joy in her day. It's a year. It has to be. But the sun blazed and simmered the scent of rotting flesh on the farm, before that barn as the doors opened.

It was a year.

Whether a year since the last time  
they celebrated her  
daughter coming into this world.

Or since she came back.

It was a year.

It wasn't even exact; the expanse of the season held the possibility for both and neither to fall on the day. With a mournful, melancholy hope her eyes glanced to the ground, sniffling quietly but not letting the dampness that rimmed her eyes carry any further than she'd already allowed it. Not a soul could see her, standing there alone in the yard. And not one would be able to place the day any better than herself.

But she felt it.

And that would have to be enough.

Still the frustration **blistered** her. Ached and writhed in her head. It didn't _matter _which it was, whether her birth or death, the anniversary was still an occasion for _ f. _She didn't want to allow herself to feel it. Not knowing for a _fact _it was the date changed the game, made it empty, made it in vain. Still…she didn't want to just… _ o_…

She stands in the sun silently, warmth turning into prickling on her skin, though she doesn't shift yet. They have a good thing here. Safe. Like they never were before. Almost total assurance. Medics, cars, bullets, fences, friends, food, water. Safe. For how long they couldn't know, but at least up until now they had been fine. She would've been fine.

She would have liked it here.

The woman doesn't know what to say. If there's anything _to _say. But she knows her ghosts can't here her anyway.


End file.
